


Peter’s Lovers

by Fluffyllama (Llama)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Fluffyllama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never come in the daylight, Peter’s lovers. But they come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peter’s Lovers

“Hey Peter, are you going to eat that or kiss it?”

It’s an old joke, dragged out any lunchtime there is no other target around. Because it’s one of those accepted facts that everyone knows, that Peter has never been kissed. Who would want to be kissed by stupid little Peter when there’s handsome Sirius or clever James to choose from? Not a girl or boy in Hogwarts, certainly, never mind the swiss roll squashed between his fingers, even if it is Peter’s favourite dessert. He stops staring at it and takes a bite, because the moment is spoilt for him now.

Peter doesn’t tell James or Sirius that his first kiss was long, long before either of theirs. Before they even kissed each other, and they don’t even know he knows about that. Instead he keeps it inside, a secret they can’t have to make up for the glances that pass over his head.

It makes him feel powerful. This is, if he’s honest, more than the kisses have ever done.

“God, Pettigrew, don’t you know what to do with your hands?”

Peter can’t help feeling it would be nice if she called him by his first name, considering the places his hands are right now, and where they’ve been. His lips are still puffy from her initial onslaught, wet with the taste of her mouth, and he’s going to have bruises for days from being pushed so hard against the shelves of the broom cupboard. He’s not sure what she wants, but he wriggles a pair of fingers that are half-twisted in damp cotton underthings that he’s never seen, and is rewarded with a squirm and a gasp of hot breath on his ear.

“Oh yes…” She grunts a little, and Peter grimaces, though only until she’s hot and tight around his fingers. Then he smiles, because he knows he has yet another thing to gloat over privately when he’s pretending to watch the others on the Quidditch field.

Too soon, she’s smoothing down the short Muggle skirt she favours and fastening her robes. The rustle and flap of fabric rough and black is there at night, both in his dreams and out, because it’s always this way. In the cramped space, he can feel every movement brushing against his hard, still-covered prick.

“But I haven’t—”

“Next time. I have to get to class.”

They always say that. He sighs, and she swears as she feels around for the door handle. She pushes him back again, hard, before light spills in through the cracks.

“Tell anyone about this and I’ll hex your balls off, Pettigrew.”

They always say that, too.

Snivellus, he still calls him, when he’s feeling brave.

Sometimes he’s not far enough away and Peter can feel the scratch of Vermin in his head, dispassionate and cold. The thrill tingles in him, like the touch of his Master’s wand, or the pleasure of transformation, and by the time night comes he knows he will be trembling in his bed, waiting.

Even in the dark, the blackness of the robes is unmistakable, and the glide of the heavy hem across the floor of the tiny bedroom barely takes long enough for Peter to draw breath. The hands that uncover him are cold, always so cold, but he warms them with his skin whether they like it or not. The rustle and rub of cloth against his bare chest, his ribs, his thighs; the press of broken bedsprings into his back; these are things he knows how to deal with, not like the daytime humiliations that leave his palms sweaty and his face flushed.

In the dark those things don’t matter. He can take the long fingers in his hands, feel the brush of stiff sleeves against his wrist, pull him closer and seal their lips together for as long as his lover will tolerate it. It’s long enough, because he can feel the greed build in the starched chest against his with every passing second, until his lungs burn and his head swims. When they pull apart, he’s blissed out and careless of the fingers that dig into his side to turn him, prepare him. Even their rough coupling, the clumsy, desperate fucking that knows nothing of tenderness, passes in a haze of raw pants and half-whispered curses until he comes with his own fingers clutching and squeezing at his prick.

In the morning there will be an empty house. Perhaps for a few hours, perhaps longer. Then it will be business as usual. One grovelling sycophant after another, one Death Eater after another, all seeking favours from the Dark Lord’s right-hand man. Orders snapped by cold, thin lips that nobody ever looks upon in lust, even now. Orders given to a man who is never regarded without scorn even among his own kind.

At least, not that anyone has ever seen.

If anything, it’s rather nice being the centre of attention for once.

Peter doesn’t know much right now, not with the too-bright light in his eyes and the roaring in his head – where is that cold wind coming from? But he knows the crowd is here for him. He can see them, although as if through a thick mist. He can hear them too when the wind blows in the right direction.

The Ministry people and the social elite are all whispering behind their hands, a harsh hiss broken all too often by a cough or a child’s voice. Here and there are even Muggles scattered among the more familiar faces. Peter sneers at their ridiculous outfits and wondering eyes. It’s just as well he won’t see any more of this brave new world if this is what the fools are going to do with it.

He remembers asking what happened to Severus, but he can’t remember if anyone answered him.

There’s a sweep of black robes back and forth across the chalky stone of the cliff, and for just a moment he wonders… but no, it’s all wrong. The robes are frayed and ragged, the glide too uneven, and still there’s this light making his eyes water. Long, pale fingers reach out for him, but he shakes his head because one thing he still knows is that seeing doesn’t mean touching.

The darkness falls before the chill touches his lips, and he smiles.


End file.
